Being the Adventures of Wesley, Undergraduate
by Wild Iris
Summary: Occasional series of ficlets about Wesley's exploits as a student at Cambridge University. He pursues spectres! He fights crime! He reads Oriental Studies!
1. Alma Mater

**Alma Mater**

In his first year at Cambridge, Wesley had learned some of what could be achieved by the old school tie.

For example, the Dean proved understanding when Wes had to explain exactly what he'd been doing in the wine cellar on Lammas Eve. And the chair of divinity gave a wink and a secret handshake over the business of the marjoram, the Apocrypha and the third-floor window.

He just wished he'd said nothing to Pamela, the ex-head girl, while she was in Hall with that rugger-bugger type. His pigeonhole was still stuffed full of slips from her Self-Activating Punishment Book.


	2. The Exorcism Term

**The Exorcism Term**

Wesley was tense when Claire approached his table in the tea room. He knew that the other day she'd seen him deep in the _Malleus Maleficarum_, which was, needless to say, not on the Oriental Studies reading list. For a moment, he feared that she would ask some very awkward questions about his interests or possibly do the ululating thing from _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. However, she sat down normally and helped herself to some sugar. They got into the usual pleasantries about Coptic and its difficult verb formations. Then, dropping her voice, she obliquely alluded to his reading matter and confessed that she had a 'paranormal issue' that was troubling her. It was the last thing he had expected, but he felt the immediate relief of being on familiar ground.

He'd already heard the legend about a ghost inhabiting her college. It was like most ghost stories – vague, melodramatic and short on documented witnesses – but some of the details were interesting, and offered enough information tentatively to class the hypothetical spectre as a Type II (revenant), demonstrative in its behaviour and potentially (though rarely) dangerous to the living. She was hesitant to share the details of her experience, but it gradually transpired that she had felt the ghost's presence on her staircase, and that it had tossed things around and sometimes given her gooseflesh in the middle of the night. Quite apart from the fascination inherent in a possible Type II sighting, Wesley felt honour bound to look into the problem.

Later that afternoon, he assembled some supplies. The essentials for a laying ceremony seemed hugely clichéd, but they'd been sanctioned by time immemorial and hopefully the ghost would be impressed. So he took a book (Mather's _Directory of Spectres_ and, as a back-up, the always useful _Guide to the Haunted Houses of England and Wales_), a bell ('borrowed' from the porter's lodge, which shouldn't lead to trouble as long as he replaced it before morning, and there seemed no reason why that shouldn't happen), and a candle (inappropriately lemon-scented, but Sayle's was the closest shop). With these items reasonably concealed inside his rucksack, he made his way swiftly to Claire's college and met her at the entrance to her staircase.

Wesley observed no evidence of paranormal activity in the ground floor hallway. There was no ectoplasm, for one thing, and although he wouldn't have expected the gelatinous gobbets popularised by Hollywood, he would have expected traces near the metalwork, doorways and other good resonating spots. He would also have thought to see objects out of their usual places. To be sure, there was a traffic cone standing in the hall, but that probably had a non-ghostly explanation.

So they went up the stairs to the first floor landing, and Claire seemed to be getting nervous, because she narrowed the space between them and he felt her minty breath on his shoulder. She showed him the tiny kitchen, but there was nothing more remarkable there than an unwashed mug in the sink and a bottle of wine in the fridge. He went so far as to uncork the latter and to check it for souring, a not uncommon effect of a malevolent presence. It smelled perfectly good, however.

The cupboard-like bathroom, too, seemed normal: scuffed white tile, wooden duckboards, the aroma of feminine oils and powders lingering in the air. No mysterious cold draughts or messages written in the condensation on the mirror. The most dangerous implement on display was a back massager; hardly the missile of choice for a typical poltergeist.

Short of rousting out the other occupants of the staircase, the only remaining location to investigate was Claire's room. She'd described this as the centre of the disturbances. Wesley thought that a strong, yet careful approach was in order, with the aim of catching the spectre - if it was present - off guard. However, before they could even exit the close confines of the bathroom, they were startled by a muffled cacophony of thuds. "What was that?" Claire exclaimed. Wesley, stirred into action, strode to the bedroom door and prepared to manhandle it open. She was abruptly taken with nervousness and clutched at his arm. "Er, wait a second – "

The door must already have been unlocked, because it opened with no resistance at all, swinging to reveal a room shadowed by the gathering autumn dusk. But he was distracted from pondering that unlocking doors was a clever trick for a Type II revenant, and further distracted from observing the pile of library books that had toppled over on Claire's desk, by seeing the numinous circles of light that swayed and trembled against the darkness. There were about half-a-dozen of these lights and, despite his initial assumption, close scrutiny proved them not to be foxfire.

"Oh," he said. He turned back to her – she had followed and was standing just inside the doorway, pulling at a coil of hair. His hand paused in the act of unfastening the rucksack wherein lay all of the exorcism supplies. "You've already _brought_ candles!"


End file.
